she’d invite Miranda to join her team permanently—
Except Ortega warned you against that, she reminded herself as she headed for the door. You’ll have to make him explain that when this is all over. Meanwhile, as he says, it’s showtime!
“How’re you holding up?” Ortega asked when she joined him on the side street.
His concerned tone surprised her, and for the first time, she wondered if she was really doing as well with this assignment as she thought she was. Then she decided he was just being a gentleman, so she smiled and assured him, “Piece of cake.”
He was wearing a strong, musky aftershave this time, and his hair was slightly damp, as though he’d been grooming it right up to the last moment.
Very convincing, she decided with admiration. He definitely seems like a guy intent on scoring tonight.
Intent on scoring, and also used to scoring. She had no doubt about that. He was more or less the sexiest man she had ever been this close to, and she figured he knew it. After all, he had worked undercover for years. Certainly in all that time he had seduced a female or two—for his country—and had probably found it surprisingly easy.
Speaking of easy, she warned herself, try not to be a total slut in the elevator. The script calls for you to enjoy him, not maul him.
Biting back a laugh, she let him rest his hand low on her back—so low it really wasn’t her back at all—as he propelled her toward her building. They flew through the doorway, clearly headed straight to bed. When the elevator didn’t come right away, Ortega began kissing her with greed and lust and several other of the very best sins.
As soon as the doors opened, he pushed her into the back corner and before the doors closed fully, he was devouring her, sliding his mouth down from her neck to her breasts, then lower and lower, until he was pushing her dress up to reveal her lace panties. Shocked, Miranda tried to think. Should she protest? Did he expect her to stop him? Was this part of the charade?
Then his teeth were tugging at the wisp of black silk, and she laced her fingers in his wavy hair. The script called for “mindless enjoyment,” and this was the very definition of the phrase.
“Ortega…” Her moan was slow and husky.
He seemed to take it as a complaint, and stood up quickly. Then he cupped her chin in his hand and murmured, “You’re just so goddammed sexy.”
The elevator opened and he whisked her down the hall, taking the keys and working the lock with one hand while holding her close with the other. Then he pushed the door open, half carried her inside, and closed it.
And then it was over.
Miranda leaned against the wall for a second, just to catch her breath. Then she straightened and gave him a smile she hoped was steady. “That went well, don’t you think?”
He stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then he murmured, “Yeah. You did well. Nice job.”
“Thanks.” She bit her lip, wondering if they were just going to stare at one another until dawn. “Would you like a drink? Or coffee? Anything like that?”
He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got about an hour. At some point, coffee will be good. But for the moment, you’re off duty. Do whatever you want. Sleep. Shower. Watch TV. I’ll check in with Jane, then just…well, I’ll find something to do.”
Miranda stepped up to him, concerned. His confidence, his calm, seemed to have abandoned him, and she wondered if he knew something she didn’t. Maybe they hadn’t done as good a job as she thought. She was a rookie, after all. There were subtleties she might miss that an experienced operative would note.
“What’s wrong?” she asked finally.
“Nothing. Everything’s great. I just have something I want to say.”
She flushed. “You don’t have to thank me, Ortega. It’s my job—and my privilege—to help a patriot like you.”
“You don’t understand.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Promise me you won’t take this the wrong way?”
She winced but nodded. “I promise.”
Ortega cleared his throat, but his voice was still husky when he told her, “I thought this part of my life was over. This feeling. This amazing, out-of-control, mind-numbing buzz. My God, Miranda, I swear I thought I was past this. But tonight, with you—”
He held up one hand to stop her from interrupting. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m just thanking you. For making me feel this way. So foolishly optimistic. So completely inspired. I thought this part of me was dead. But tonight…with you…it’s the most unbelievable thing I’ve ever felt.”
She stared up at him, speechless for what seemed like forever. Then she whispered, “Thank God, Ortega. I thought it was just me.”
His dark eyes widened, then a grin spread slowly over his face.
And then to her shocked delight, he scooped her up in his arms—like some sort of brawny epic hero!—and carried her into the bedroom.
Settling down at a table in the middle of a bustling coffeehouse on the edge of campus, Miranda opened her laptop and pretended to study the screen, while actually listening intently to the conversations of nearby students. She was dressed the part of a graduate student herself in her green-and-white University of Hawaii T-shirt, faded jeans and flat leather sandals.
This was a new phase of her language immersion program. Her assignment? Tracking the discussions she overheard, whether she understood them or not. This particular café was the perfect spot since it catered to international students.
After a weekend of recovering from the Ortega alibi assignment, she had been glad to find distraction in this new adventure. As expected, she hadn’t heard from Jane Smith or Ortega at all, but she had read the newspapers, so she knew that at this point at least Ortega was not considered a suspect in the killing of the president’s advisor. In fact, his agency, SPIN, was leading the investigation. And from all reports, Jane Smith had succeeded in making it appear to be a simple break-in gone wrong.
But Miranda knew better, and she took great pleasure in imagining Ortega and Smith working behind the scenes to catch the bastards who had tried to frame him. The world might never know what really happened, but justice would be done. And with any luck, Ortega would share the top secret details with her on their fourth date.
She was pretty sure there would be a fourth date. He had as much as told her so. It would make the alibi even more believable, for one thing, if they kept seeing each other. And as added incentive, there was the simple matter of the bonfire in her bedroom during that last hour together.
Yes, she was sure she’d hear from him. And maybe from Jane Smith, too, inviting her to join the team permanently. She’d jump at that chance, Ortega’s warning notwithstanding.
But for now, she needed to do a good job on this new assignment. So far, after two days of posing as a student in the coffee house, she had been able to identify most of the languages she overheard, but couldn’t distinguish any words beyond simple greetings and pleasantries.
Unimpressive, she decided with a sigh. Two weeks
